


Dinner & Diatribes

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic, Asexuality, Assumed Relationship, Attempt at Humor, Gen, YouTube, ignore the hozier implications of the title please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-12 15:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: It would have been fine. It would have been perfectly alright. If it weren't for the internet.





	Dinner & Diatribes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashmctrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmctrash/gifts).



> happy birthday magnus. i don't think you were there for the original youtuber grizzop/wilde Fuckening, but it was Very Cursed. and your birthday was coming up. and i thought, 'Hm. What's The Worst Possible Thing I Could Write That Trash McTrash, King Of The Trash Hills, Would Enjoy?' and then i was like, 'oh, yeah, the thing where half the internet thinks grizzop and wilde are having sex.' merry fucking crisis! i hate the rqdbfc.
> 
> Working Title: _> :|_

There are a lot of good things about Oscar Wilde, as much as Grizzop hates to admit it. His comedic timing is impeccable, even if his jokes are subpar at best. He has exactly the kind of wardrobe that would win him an award, even if everything in his closet is so bright it gives Grizzop a headache. (Not to mention the fact that most of the time, the clothes he’s wearing aren’t his own.) And, as much as it pains Grizzop to pay the man a meaningful compliment, Wilde’s pretty good at listening to him rant.

Which is precisely what Grizzop was doing, sitting cross-legged on Wilde’s couch, string cheese clutched in his hands. He was ranting. Then Wilde said something about needing to keep up his channel’s updating schedule, and Grizzop figured that he didn’t really have anywhere else to be, so he might as well listen to him talk about whatever _‘influential literature’_ he was discussing this week. Except, when Wilde started recording, he pulled out a wine bottle. Grizzop scrambled up off of the couch and left _very_ quickly once it was clear that this was going on Wilde’s personal channel.

And it would have been fine.

It would have been perfectly alright.

Except for the internet.

This is revenge, Grizzop decides. This is the universe telling him to think about what he says before he says it. He made one joke about Hamid being a scalie, and karma decided that the only reasonable punishment for starting a meme at his friend’s expense was to have half of the internet start thinking that he and Oscar Wilde had sex.

Thanks, karma.

* * *

Sasha’s seen him do a lot of weird shit, and he’s very grateful for that fact when she sits down on the couch next to him and sets a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream on his thigh without commenting on the fact that he’s been screeching, eyes squeezed shut, up at the ceiling like some kind of rabid goblin. “Thanks,” he says, and then he goes right back to screaming. Sasha pats him on the forehead and then she leaves off to her & Azu’s room.

Grizzop really loves her, sometimes.

He loves her a significant amount less when he finally looks at the ice cream and reads the green sticky note on it. _“Sorry about your boyfriend,”_ in her scraggly hand, and Grizzop makes a high-pitched growl in the back of his throat as he rips the note to pieces. He’s still going to eat the ice cream, though.

* * *

Vesseek thinks the whole ordeal is fucking hilarious. “You,” they cackle, “and– and _Oscar Wilde,_ having sex! Oh my god, _oh my god,_ that’s– I—” they break off to cackle harder, bent double and wheezing.

Grizzop continues pacing their flat. Vesseek has a very good flat for pacing, hardwood floors that are always clean so he can take off his shoes at the door and wear a hole in the hallway. “Did I mention the part where he’s _Oscar fucking Wilde,_ and I _hate_ him? Did I mention that? I feel like I’ve mentioned it! But does the internet care? _No!”_ Vesseek thumps to the floor, still scream-laughing, and he stops pacing to scowl down at them. “You don’t have to laugh that hard!” Grizzop screeches indignantly.

Vesseek tries to catch their breath and manages to gasp out, “He’s kinda pretty Grizzop! You’d be– _oh holy shit your face–_ you’d be really cute together!” There’s a shit-eating grin dancing in their eyes even as they attempt to tamp down the one pulling at their lips, and Grizzop wants very much to kick them in the ribs until they stop laughing at him.

He pivots on his heel instead, so he doesn’t have to look at them laughing even though he can still _hear_ it. “I’d imagine being aroace and hating his guts might make it difficult to be anything like _cute_ with him,” Grizzop deadpans. Vesseek goes back to cackling, and Grizzop goes back to pacing. “I do not _love_ Wilde, I do not want to _fuck_ Wilde, I don’t even fucking _like_ Wilde! The only romancing I will agree to is if he _kisses_ my ass!” 

(Grizzop doesn’t notice Vesseek pulling out their phone and filming this from the ground. Vesseek very much does pull out their phone and film this from the ground.)

Grizzop growls angrily and incoherently with no reason behind it besides _primal screaming makes people feel better sometimes_ and drops down to sit on the ground and chew frustratedly on his fingers. “I don’t have time for a romantic relationship, even if I wanted one,” he grumbles to himself around his thumb, “and I don’t want one! Especially not with him! He literally makes me want to vomit! Every single conversation I have with him ends in him trying not to get kicked in the crotch or me trying not to pull a Hamid and barf in a corner!” He gesticulates angrily. He does not look at Vesseek, adding a caption to their story, having the time of their life. “And have I mentioned,” he asks, shooting up to his feet and resuming his pacing, “that I’m aroace? Because, aside from the fact that he’s _Oscar fucking Wilde,_ and I _hate_ him, there’s also the bit where I _do not feel romantic or sexual attraction._ At all! For anyone! But _especially_ not him, because _eugh!_ Have I mentioned that? I feel like I have _defintely_ mentioned that!” 

(He has, and he knows he has, but Grizzop has scheduled himself two hours at Vesseek’s flat, and he’s going to use at least one of them screaming about this. There are already compilations. Grizzop has been added to the compilations of weird people slinking out past Wilde with ruffled hair and rumpled clothing who don’t let the camera catch them. His allotted hour of rage is _well_ deserved.)

Vesseek stops to catch their breath, and Grizzop hears, for the first time, the sound of his own screeching playing from the speakers of their phone. _“—do not want to_ fuck _Wilde, I don’t even fucking_ like _Wilde!”_ Grizzop stops pacing and turns on his socked heel to stare at Vesseek. They stare back at him. Neither of them says anything for a long moment. _“—trying not to get kicked in the crotch—”_ says the Grizzop-on-the-phone, and Grizzop-in-the-real-world lunges.

Vesseek scampers backwards, still cackling. “I’m gonna post it,” they taunt, curling into a ball to get away from Grizzop’s longer arms. “It’s going up on my story, and you can’t stop me!” They duck under his scrabbling fingers and leap up onto the couch, out of reach for exactly two seconds, but that’s long enough for them to confirm it, and now Grizzop’s complaining is just _out in the world._

Grizzop’s fingers curl up into fists, and he looks Vesseek dead in the eye. As calmly as he can manage, _“VESSEEK DRIK NEGEN AMSTERDAM I’M GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU.”_ Vesseek beams at him. 

Grizzop chases them around the apartment for about half an hour, and by the time both of them are collapsed, panting on the floor, Grizzop can feel a lot of his agitated energy worked off. Vesseek yanks his hand out of his mouth and says, “Lemme find you the bracelet you left here before all your knuckles are bloody stubs.” Grizzop grumbles at them, but it’s probably for the best. They also give him bandaids for his fingers, and the two of them sit, curled together on the couch, lovingly insulting each other and watching Vesseek’s favourite movies. 

(Which are all absolute rubbish, but at least they’re not romcoms.)

* * *

Hamid is nothing but smug, and Grizzop doesn’t know what he was expecting. He doesn’t so much as look up from doing his lipstick as he asks, “How’re things with Wilde?” Grizzop stills and turns slowly to look at him. “I saw you in the mirror,” Hamid says in answer to the question etched on Grizzop’s face, daubing purple onto his lower lip.

Grizzop grumbles wordlessly (he seems to be doing a lot of that lately) and continues to Hamid’s fridge without any sense of subtlety, now, because Hamid notices things that aren’t his reflection, but only when it inconveniences someone else. Because he’s awful. “Dunno, I try not to talk to people I hate.” He grabs some string cheese and a spoon. He calls out to the den, “Are you using this peanut butter?”

Hamid answers, “No, you can have it! Though, it might be expired.”

Grizzop checks the expiration date. Only a few days ago, so it’s probably still fine, not to mention the fact that Grizzop can eat practically anything without getting sick. He nabs it from the top shelf, scrambles back down to floor level, and mumbles, “Right, thanks.” He was planning on talking to Zolf, who’s the only other person that hates Wilde as much as he does, but that’s not a conversation he wants to have if Hamid is there. 

“Grizzop?” Hamid asks, turning away from his mirror to look directly at him. Grizzop can’t tell, but he _thinks_ that Hamid’s wearing his dragon contacts. (Because he’s a scalie.)

Grizzop stops, spoon and cheese in one hand and half-full jar of peanut butter in the other. “Yeah?”

“Are you going to eat those at the same time?”

Grizzop shrugs and says, “I mean, yeah, probably.” Hamid gives him a look that Grizzop has seen several times, mostly directed at Sasha. He likes to call it the _‘why would you commit such horrid crimes against food’_ look. Grizzop grins at him, says, “Have fun with being a lizard,” far more cheerily than he really feels, and walks back out again as Hamid objects strenuously.

* * *

Oscar Wilde is literally the worst, and if Grizzop were a slightly more selfish person, he’d stop doing this. “Eat,” Grizzop says instead, shoving the plate toward him slightly, “whatever’s on your phone can wait.” Wilde arches an eyebrow at him. “Look, the faster you finish your food, the less opportunity I have to break your bank by ordering more for myself. Also, it’s getting cold.” Wilde shakes his head like Grizzop’s meddling is adorably annoying, (and Grizzop doesn’t kick him in the dick because his legs are too short to reach) but he sets his phone face down on the table and starts eating, so that’s still a victory as far as Grizzop is concerned.

Grizzop nods to himself and continues digging into his own lunch. There’s the clinking of forks and knives against plates, and it’s a comfortable background din settled just quieter than the music. “Why do you keep doing this?” Wilde asks. Grizzop blinks up at him, fettuccini hanging out of his mouth. “The restaurants. I know you’ve seen what people are saying, and I know you don’t like me. So why?” Wilde looks more amused than genuinely questioning, as if Grizzop is a jigsaw puzzle he’s trying to put together. Grizzop slurps the rest of the noodle into his mouth and wipes his face on his sleeve.

“You’re a good person,” he says, and Wilde scoffs. Grizzop scowls and presses on, “No, really. You’re a condescending prick and I hate you, but at heart, you’re a decent human being, and I’m not gonna let you work yourself to death.” Wilde squints at him, like he’s confused if Grizzop actually means it. Self-esteem is not Grizzop’s problem even a little bit, and he deflects, “Also, unlike Hamid, you’ll insult me no matter what I order.”

“You eat things _very_ strangely.”

“Is this about the chopsticks again?”

_“Who uses chopsticks like that, Grizzop? Who?”_

“Plenty of people! Plenty of people—”

“No one. I’ve never seen anyone—”

“Because you don’t look at anything except your phone and your books—”

 _“Because_ no one uses chopsticks like—!”

It’s a miracle they don’t get kicked out, they’re arguing so loudly. They argue about chopsticks, and then about Sasha’s expertise on the matter, (“I’ve seen her _drink marinara,_ find a different character witness.”) and then about Sasha in general, and a million other nitpicky things that Grizzop forgets as soon as the topic changes. Eventually he pulls up outside Wilde’s place and says, “Get the hell out of my car already! Go do—” he flaps a hand at him— “whatever sad and/or concerning thing you do when you’re alone!” Wilde gives him a look that’s two parts judgemental and one part incredulous. Grizzop makes a face at him, mimicking his eyebrow raise and making a wordless noise of antagonism.

“Fine,” Wilde sighs long-sufferingly as he gets out of the passenger seat. Like he’s been the one having his culinary choices attacked for the past fifteen minutes. Grizzop starts to roll the window up after him, but Wilde sticks a hand through and holds the glass in place. “I’m only going to say this once,” Wilde says, “but thank you. It’s… not terrible, being forced to leave the house once in a while.” 

Grizzop shrugs. “It’s terrible talking to you, but the food’s alright.” Wilde snorts and starts walking back up his driveway. Grizzop figures that making sure Wilde doesn’t starve counts as his good deed for the day and starts driving back to his and Azu’s flat. He turns his music all the way up and shouts along to _The Heart Is A Muscle_ at the top of his lungs.

(He doesn’t look at Twitter, because he’s 97% sure he saw someone taking photos of him and Wilde at the restaurant and he absolutely refuses to deal with the ramifications of his good deed.)

**Author's Note:**

> this is easily the second worst thing i have ever written. happy birthday, you curséd trash man. i love you.


End file.
